The Prospect of Forever
by giannimartelli
Summary: Three vignettes revolving around immortal Malik and Altaïr. Inspired by a photo of a Victorian-era prosthetic arm. Thanks to my girlfriend for all the help on these.
1. La Vie en Acier

**La Vie In Acier  
Paris, c. 1880s.  
**  
Altaïr settled into the softness of a pile of cushions, cursing the perplexing soreness of his body and the roughness of the fabric on his skin. He had hardly planned it this way; he had had little in the way of expectations when he realized the true extent of the Apple's power. However, he had not expected to spend the rest of his infinite life with the soreness of a man of fifty.

Malik, too, had his share of complaints, always more vehement and possibly more justified than Altaïr's. He had been reluctant to do as Altaïr had, afraid to fall into the same obsessive state in which Altaïr had found himself; nearly a decade had passed between Altaïr's discovery and Malik's use of it. Malik had grown physically older than Altaïr in his hesitance, collected still more scars, more aching in his joints.

He entered the room, a chamber of a small rough-hewn house, and though his footsteps were silent, his knees creaked quietly. Altaïr looked up at him with an affectionate smile and hardly cringed at the bitter scowl that flitted over Malik's lined face.

"I believe that I tell you every day that I hate you," Malik said, adjusting the left sleeve of his shirt over his newest acquisition, a steel and brass contraption that approximated an arm. He seated himself on the settee beside the cushions, resting his hand on Altaïr's shoulder and the metal forearm on his own leg. He stroked the side of Altaïr's neck with his thumb, looking down at him; warmth filled his brown eyes.

Altaïr nodded patiently, turning his head upward. "Often multiple times in a day," he replied. "Safety and peace, brother."

Malik smiled, the corners of his lips tweaking upward only slightly. "Your presence brings both to my life."


	2. Mi Amor… Me Haces Furioso

**Mi Amor... Me Haces Furioso**  
**Madrid, c. 1660s.**

Malik quirked an eyebrow as Altair adjusted a great feathered hat upon his head.

The Grandmaster peered into a polished Venetian mirror and looked down at his coat, a heavy wool garment fastened up the front with dozens of small buttons; the sleeves, too, were rimmed with buttons and buttonholes, most of them undone.

He straightened the lace at his cuffs and picked at the blousy material of his shirt sleeves fastidiously, then pulled his red cloak tight around his shoulder. He gave his companion a smile, picking up his tan hide gloves from the back of a chair. "Aren't you going to dress?" he asked, looking Malik over with some small measure of amusement.

"I despise this decade," Malik said. "And I despise _you_, not in small part because you clothe yourself in such ridiculousness and expect me to do the same."

Altair gave him an infuriatingly placid smile. "Hide in plain sight, brother," he said. "I believe you know as well as I do the second tenet-"

"Very well," sniped Malik, standing in his undergarments in the bed chamber. "Then I shall dress as your servant in public, and in private I shall beat you each night."

With a chuckle, the Grandmaster nodded. "I shall look forward to it."


	3. A Te Il Cuore Arrendo

**A Te Il Cuore Arrendo  
Florence, c. 1470s.**

Malik grimaced, fumbling at the leather lacings at the front of Altaïr's hose. He snarled a curse as Altaïr's rough hands jerked at his belt, then finally relented, grabbing a fistful of Altaïr's hair and pulling him into a crushing kiss as the belt fell from his hips, the metal clasp striking the stone floor with a clatter.

Altaïr quickly undid the fastenings of Malik's doublet as he backed him against the wall, breaking away from the kiss to lap at the base of his neck, tasting his sweat, breathing the scents of herbs and flowers, relishing the underlying musk, grown almost tangible in the oppressive summer heat.

Closing his eyes momentarily, Malik curled his fingernails into the back of Altaïr's neck and moaned. He hitched his leg over Altaïr's hip, drawing him near, pulling complementary warm weight against his tightly-constricted groin.

The smell of the tanned and dyed leather leggings mingled with the ambient smell of sweat and that of the warm wine that lay forgotten in cups on the nearby table.

Altaïr slid his hands down Malik's sides and pulled the doublet up; Malik put up little struggle, ducking out of the heavy leather garment and pushing it out of Altaïr's hands. The material landed with a strange slap against the floor and Malik breathed a laugh that crumbled at the edges and trailed off into a needy whine as Altaïr's tongue flicked against his earlobe and strong fingers gripped his backside.

"Were I not, _ha_..." Malik licked his lip and clawed at the closures at the front of Altaïr's shirt, biting back a groan as Altaïr ravished his neck, returning his foot to solid ground and wincing at the crackling of his knees. "Were I not in a measure of pain I would suggest that the _floor_ might prove a pleasantly cool place to lie," he said.

With a laugh, Altaïr pushed up Malik's ivory and orange dip-dyed chemise, sliding his hands along sweat-slick skin and sighing in pleasure.

Malik growled low in his chest and impatiently untied the bow that held the thin chemise closed. He reached across to the left side and pulled it off over his head, then threw it down on the floor; his eyes closed pleasurably as Altaïr's hands stroked his chest lovingly, his fingertips grazing scars older than the _Duomo_ in the city's center.

He chuckled to himself, pushing away centuries of memory in favor of recognizing only the joy that was the proximity of Altaïr's body and the irritation that was the layers of clothes covering it, shielding it from view and touch and the inevitable marking it would suffer under the teeth of its master.

"_Yalla_," he breathed, tugging at the belts and seams that held the slim form inside those layers, smiling when the command fell not on deaf ears. Altaïr fumbled free of his confining black doublet and chemise- the gradated red segment not unlike the sashes they had worn centuries previous- and with little care or precision let the fabric tumble to the floor.

Their mouths met once again and Altaïr's heart seemed to rumble like cannon fire in his chest. He sank to his knees and relieved Malik of his leather hose, moaning in pleasure at the sight of Malik's erection freed from its confines and achingly hard; he looked up into dark eyes as he touched his lower lip to the bead of fluid collecting at the red tip, unable to contain a choked sigh of overwhelming emotion at the smell and taste of his lover, familiar, warm and bitter and salty.

Malik's breath halted and he tangled his fingers in Altaïr's hair, tipping his head back against the wall and voicelessly murmuring his name as the heat of Altaïr's mouth engulfed the entirety of his length.

Altaïr fumbled with his hose and pushed them down, wrapping a hand around his shaft; Malik glanced downward and a breathy thunderclap of laughter brought Altaïr's attention upward. "You wouldn't dare," he breathed.

"_Mmh_," Altaïr groaned, sending a shudder through Malik's body. He licked wetly along his length and looked up with expectant golden eyes; the fingers of Malik's hand curled around his left arm, pulling him upward, and with a puckish grin Malik pushed him toward the nearby table.

Tripping on his leather hose, Altaïr landed harder than intended against the table; his hand hit the ceramic wine jug, knocking it off of the table, and the pottery shattered on the floor, spilling a small but significant quantity of red wine on the stone.

Malik laughed aloud, a searing white-hot sound that filled Altaïr's cheeks with sudden color. "You incompetent _fool_, that might have been worth something in a few centuries' time," he said.

Altaïr grinned, curling a hand around the nearest cup of wine; he drank deeply from it, stepping out of his hose and shoving them away with his foot, looking over his shoulder as he spread his legs. He pushed the cup away and chuckled at the sound of Malik spitting into his hand and at the wet sounds that followed; after a moment's pause he swore at a sharp, stinging smack on his backside.

"Would you rather I did _not_ do it this way?" Malik asked, awkwardly standing on his toes to position himself; Altaïr merely laughed again and took a deep, shuddering breath as Malik entered him.

The stretch was familiar, a comfort in the form of mild discomfort that fell away as soon as Malik began to move, his hand gripping Altaïr's hip.

They moved together, Altaïr pressing back against heavy thrusts that he swore he felt in his chest, in old scars that tightened with the flexing of his muscles, with the expansion of his ribcage with gasping breaths.

Malik leaned over Altaïr, holding himself up on the table, littering stinging bites over the bare expanse of his back and taking pleasure in the gasps and moans he received for his efforts, the quiet ticks of stilted breath that stuttered out between Altaïr's lips.

"_Bahebak_," Altaïr whispered, resting his forehead on his arms which rubbed and burned bare against the wooden tabletop.

The bites, harsh nicks of teeth against skin, slowly halted, replaced as Malik moved faster with kisses between almost painful gasps. "_Bahebak_," he replied, wrapping his arm around Altaïr's torso and rubbing rough grey stubble against his back.

Hot breath spilled over Altaïr's spine and Malik shoved his legs further apart, thrusting deep and hard, angling deliberately to drive Altaïr over the edge, to bring him to a shuddering climax; he murmured soft words with no purpose and less intent that nonetheless seemed necessary- words of deep aching love that he kept catalogued and hidden for the times when they were truly alone, each tied to the other's thoughts and little else; words to which there were no responses, only building, overlapping breaths and the sudden thrill of tightness, the lightning strike of pleasure to shock the very core.

As Altaïr shuddered beneath him, gripping the table with his fingertips and muffling impassioned cries against his arms, Malik held him, holding off, moderating his breathing, the movement of his body; finally Altaïr's hips jerked and with an almost pained cry he came, and Malik quickly followed, burying himself inside Altaïr and curling his fingertips into his ribcage.

With a low groan, Malik slid his hand up Altaïr's chest, placing it over his heart; he felt its beating and closed his eyes, breathing the scent of mingled sweat as he traced a scar over Altaïr's collarbone.

After their breathing had calmed and at the mercy of Malik's aching knees, they pulled apart; Altaïr chuckled as he turned from the table and noted the spilled wine and broken ceramic on the floor. He started to crouch to clean up the mess, but Malik caught his chin in his hand and turned his face upward.

He looked into golden eyes and a smile painted itself over his lined face, the grey stubble glittering in the creases, dimples appearing in his cheeks as the corners of his eyes crinkled. "I believe that I hate you less than ever in the Florentine summer... when it is hot, and therefore you do and say little. You speak louder when you say nothing."

Altaïr smiled, taking Malik's chin in his own hand. "There is little that I must do or say, brother," he said with a laugh. "You have already heard and seen everything. I worry that you will become bored of me."

Chuckling, Malik kissed the scar over Altaïr's lips. "I crave familiarity," he said. "What greater comfort exists than safety and peace?"

"Love." Altaïr's lips twitched into a smirk.

Malik closed his eyes and grinned, shaking his head at the floor. "Go. Finish your task, and finish it well. I do not want to step on shards of ceramic."


End file.
